One of my earliest memories is sitting on the beach in New Jersey where my maternal grandmother lived. I don’t know if I was two, or six, but I do remember that already having taken a bite, I dropped my big red apple in the sand. I picked it up and held it out to my aunt who said, ” A little sand never hurt anyone.” So I took a bite.

And she was right. It was a little, well, sandy, but I didn’t suffer long-term from the experience unless you count having it as a memory and writing about it in a blog as suffering.

It all harkens back to a time when things were simpler. When we dropped apples in the sand and took a bite, when we dropped candy on the ground and “kissed it up to God” to make the germs go away, or wiped the dirt off on the side of our plaid pants or dungarees. My mother wasn’t carrying antibacterial wipes with her in the 60’s - and no one had bottled spring water, which in a pinch, can wash off anything.

I’ve always had a hearty constitution, I’m not a germ-o-phobe and although I don’t advocate eating anything unhealthily dirty, as a parent I have always subscribed to the tennant that “a little dirt — or sand — never hurt anyone.”

So all the recent research that has been done on the old-wives-tale/”5-second rule” of dropping food on the ground? Pish-shaw! I’m living proof, they really didn’t need the research, but I’m glad that my nature to be somewhat lacksidasical is now backed by science.

For all of you crazed with cleanliness, though, please know that the most recent Connecticutt College study showed that apple slices do not have any more bacteria at one minute on the floor than at 5 seconds, and that Skittles can remain on the floor an entire 5 minutes without upping the anty.

Somehow I’m not surprised.

I haven’t been away long enough to forget that the blogosphere goes into slow-gear on weekends.

Funny, it’s when I have the most time to read and write. Not in sync with the masses once again, go figure.

In lieu of a mind-blowing, life-altering post, here are links to my online columns, should you find yourself with a hot cup of coffee and time to read.

Who Is Isabella? is a hip women’s website where all (ok most) of the content is written by women. It’s not a mom site, athough there are some moms there. In my column, Mom on a Wire, I write about life but not always about motherhood. It’s like my own personal time-out.

Over at The Imperfect Parent I do write about parenting, which only makes sense!

Back to verbal meandering tomorrow.

I always need to know what words mean so that I can use them correctly, and I am always on the lookout for words that pinpoint what I’m thinking or saying.

I have often wondered about the difference between skepticism and cynicism, and which camp, if either, I fall in.

I found this explanation at The Hindu, the online edition of India’s national newspaper:

What is the difference between a “sceptic” and “cynic”?

(K. Pitchaiah, Hyderabad)

A “sceptic” is someone who doubts everything that most people take for granted. He doubts the value of an idea or a belief. Scepticism is the great doubt that an individual has whether something is useful or true. The Americans spell the word “skeptic”. Here are a few examples.

*Harish tried hard to convince the sceptic of the truth.

*The chairman said that the economy would improve, but Raju remained skeptical.

While a “sceptic” has reservations about things, a cynic has a negative attitude about everything. The word has a negative connation. A cynic is someone who doesn’t believe that people can be good. When people are good, he believes that they are being nice because they have an ulterior motive. A cynic does not trust or respect the goodness of other people. The school of Cynics was started by Antisthenes and he and his followers believed that virtue was the only good. They felt that the only way to remain virtuous was through self-discipline and independence. It’s strange that a word that began by having a positive meaning ended up with a negative one.

*Bela is too much of a cynic to believe anything I say.

*Gajendran has always been cynical about politicians.

I let all this soak in, and decided, that I am, most assuredly, a skeptic. I do not believe the world and all people and ideas are inherently bad, but I do have a quizzical and doubting nature, brought about by circumstance.

I’ve thought about this before, how most people trust or believe until they have a reason to not. I do not trust or believe until I have a reason to. When I read J’s post about her friend getting married, it brought that skepticism/cynicism question to the forefront of my mind, frankly, because when I read about marriage and love I roll my eyes.

I don’t disbelieve in the institution of marriage as a whole. I have healthy, functional and even some amazing partnerships around me and have my entire life — so I know that it works for many people. Therefore I am not cynical when it comes to marriage. What I am, is skeptical, due not only to my own situation but to others I’ve witnessed and been a part of.

I’m glad that I’m not what I’d consider the more negative of the two negatives. I hold my skepticism in high esteem. It protects me. What I’m wondering though is if it also shields me when it shouldn’t. And how on earth am I supposed to know the difference?

To wine or not to wine, that is the question.

Every few weeks I struggle with whether or not to attend my “Wine Time” group, where eleven women gather to chat and drink and eat. Most of these women are not my friends, although I like most of them. I do not socialize outside of coffee and Target with any of them. I like being part of this group, which is contractory since I rarely attend the gatherings.

In the summer these women get together at the Country Club where all of them save two us, belong. I don’t want to go there. Not because I feel out of place. Quite the contrary. I feel like I belong there. Because I did, when I was married. So now I prefer to stay away and not be reminded of a life once lived - and the struggles that have since ensued.

And in the past few weeks I’ve started meeting a friend of mine for dinner at a local Bakers Square, for those of you who are unfamiliar, it’s like a diner but not, and has some really kicka$$ award-winning pie.

What it boils down to is that I’d rather eat there with my real friend than at a country club with peripheral friends. I struggle only because in theory I like being included, although I regularly exclude myself.

Plus, by the end of any given Friday, the last thing I want to do is doll up. I want to doll down and relax, kick back and put my hair in a clip. These women of Wine Time are usually gearing up for weekend plans and I usually, am not. And if I am, it’s not the caliber of plans that require gearing up for.

I’m a little bitter when it comes to this group, kind of like the stuff left at the bottom of the bottle. I wonder if I’ll get “kicked out” of the group - although it’s not really that kind of group. And one of my friends did mention how I don’t like to be “there,” but I do not expect anyone to understand.

The best choice for me is to stay away sometimes, and just sit in a booth with my legs crossed drinking a diet coke and oogling the coconut cream pie.

Mothering — good mothering that is — utilizes every part of a woman’s mind - and her brain - which I sometimes think are different things.

As mothers we’re constantly learning about our children and about our worlds - what our kids like, how they interact with us and the world around them. What it’s like as they grow, how to handle different situations. How to rise from adversity whether it be an owie, a failed test or an illness.

Mindful mothering means that we’re always on. It’s been said that mothers sleep with one eye open, always primed to jump or run to the crib, bedside, telephone, bathroom or kitchen and it’s true. I have rarely even found the off switch let alone used it — and I began wondering if there was anything left between my hoop dangling ears that doesn’t have to do with children.

I have doubted myself in many areas of my life for as long as I can remember - and I have been shown that I can figure almost anything out and do anything well. But those anythings have had to do with mothering for over fifteen years.

Therefore, when I signed up for my second writing class just a few weeks ago and the assignments were more than just writing, I panicked. For this class I not only had to tap into my creative mind, but into my brain. I had to read, analyze, dissect, and figure. It wasn’t finding a flow for my story, but a method for my madness. And I struggled. I used page after page of notebook paper. First college ruled, then wide-ruled. I used pencils and pens - blue and black. I settled on wide-ruled and blue, and then I decided that was enough work for one day.

I had to think not about story but about method. I had to read about the reason behind what I wanted to say and figure out how and why I wanted to say it. It was all very deliberate. It did not flow. It was actually - academic. And with all the reading, writing, thinking and problem-solving I’ve done in my mothering life, this was like sitting down with the college math problems that made me become a Journalism major where no math was required. It just wasn’t going to happen.

I really doubted my ability to do the assignment at all and although my head hurt from thinking, it was really my ego that was in jeopardy. I felt incapable.

Just tell me to write a paragraph, I thought. Don’t tell me to analyze and outline and configure. But then, inspired by my drive to prove myself wrong as well as the credit card charges associated with this course, I sat down and completed the assignment, all the while shaking my head in dismay and confusion.

And when I was finished, after days of reading and writing and scribbling and figuring and revising and redoing — it made sense.

Where I thought I’d been challenged as a mother, woman and world citizen simply - and not so simply - I hadn’t tapped this portion of my brain, in ages. I stared at the completed assignment — an outline — on my laptop monitor and it represented to me much more than hours of diligence. It represented to me that there is always more than what’s obvious, more than what’s on the surface and that there is often more to me, than meets even my own mind’s eye.

Summer is in full swing here, and in Mayberry we are inundated with cicadas. These are not the yearly cicadas that sing, these are the 17-year cicadas with red eyes that bulge out of their heads. These are the beasts that look like cartoon bugs that make so much noise I have to make my car radio louder when I drive down certain streets. It makes me miss the hot dry city sidewalks of my youth - where a bug was an ant and we stepped on it. Cicadas crunch if you step on them, that is, if you kill me, otherwise they just keep buzzing.

But the highlight of the day is that now, after two weeks of either one or both kids home fulltime, everyone is gone, at least for the morning. It’s messy and dusty around the house but it’s quiet and fabulous.

I can’t believe I haven’t posted since April. The issue is that if something is “published” on a blog, most conventional editors and publishers won’t touch it. That means my ideas are being fleshed out, written and peddled to papers and magazines. It’s like a round robin with rejections, but I do have few stories you can find here and here and here and on page 54 here, with a couple more coming in the Fall in Chicago Parent and Kansas City Parent. I’ve also gotten some great feedback from editors of glossies, as that’s where I’m hoping to end up some day.

I haven’t figured out how to write for publication and write for the blog do both well. Sometimes I think this could be my outlet for ideas and camaraderie, for journaling about my life, for pensive rambling thoughts and other such nonsense and good sense.

And then I remember how much I liked REALLY writing for my blog, and I don’t want to belittle its worth, so I do nothing, which isn’t working for me either.

So if anyone is out there, I’m trying to figure this out, and when I do, I hope you’ll be around!

And yes, I linked to myself after not posting for months. It’s a writer’s ego.